


Rock Your Body

by luckjustkissedyouhello



Series: Rollercoastermoon's Whumptober 2020 Fics [9]
Category: King Falls AM (Podcast)
Genre: Carrying, Earthquakes, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Trapped, Whump, Whumptober 2020, ben arnold whump, collapsed building, i think i'll collapse right here, sammy is afraid of the dark, sammy stevens has no self preservation, sammy stevens whump, wound reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:40:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27362884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckjustkissedyouhello/pseuds/luckjustkissedyouhello
Summary: Sammy groans as he blinks open his eyes. As he does, a spike of fresh fear runs up his spine.Ben!
Relationships: Ben Arnold & Sammy Stevens
Series: Rollercoastermoon's Whumptober 2020 Fics [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946800
Comments: 8
Kudos: 43
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Rock Your Body

**Author's Note:**

> as requested on tumblr, Sammy & Ben in an earthquake, unaware they're broadcasting the aftermath on the radio, with a side of carrying. I hope you like it!

It happens without warning. One minute they’re chatting with Archie about the werewolves apparently riling up his beloved pomchis - who are losing their little doggie minds in the background of the call howling and barking and whining - despite it being a new moon and not a full moon, and the next, everything starts shaking.

Archie stops talking (‘oh, found a way’ Sammy thinks, distantly), and the dogs are absolutely howling in the background. Ben asks: “Wha...?“ and it pulls Sammy from his frozen moment of confusion into the realization that it’s an earthquake.

Sammy lived in California. He was forced by station management to watch a thousand and one safety videos on earthquakes - one every six months at least. Must have done almost as many drills. The point of all the training, all drills, is that when the real thing happens, your body reacts properly. He’d never been in one, not really. 

“Earthquake!” Sammy says, as he jumps to his feet and starts rounding the desk to get to Ben. “Get—“ 

Sammy never gets to finish telling Ben to get under the desk. There’s a horrifically loud crash above their heads and then Sammy’s struck in the back by something and he’s knocked to the still rumbling ground. Something heavy smacks him in the back of his head, scrapes along his head, and hits the floor next to him. 

He doesn’t quite lose consciousness, but everything kind of whites out in a haze of pain and terror. 

He comes back into his body, into awareness, slowly. There is a weight on his back, making it hard to breathe, and it’s heavy and it hurts. Sammy groans as he blinks open his eyes. As he does, a spike of fresh fear runs up his spine. _Ben_! Is Ben okay? He can’t hear Ben making noise or talking or anything! 

All he can see is near-total darkness. The air is thick with dust, it stings his eyes. The station must have some power, or the backup generator is working, because he suspects there is at least emergency lights on somewhere, otherwise he wouldn’t be seeing shit as dark as it is in the room when they close the steel shutters for protection. None of the emergency lights are on in this room. He can only see outlines of black on slightly less black - he’s mostly only seeing shadows. But he’s sure that Shadows are not the smartest thing to think about right now.

“Ben,” he chokes out, coughing violently at all the dust in the air. Whatever that’s on his back moves with him as he coughs, fuck it hurts his lower back, but it moves. He’s not pinned. 

Ben doesn’t respond. Sammy calls his name again, more desperate. No answer. The choked off sound Sammy makes might be considered a sob, if Sammy didn’t clench his jaw and try and stuff the sound back down his throat. Ben is obviously hurt (hurt not dead, _please_ not dead, Sammy begs silently, not even sure _who_ he’s begging - anyone who will fucking listen, maybe). Sammy needs to man up and help his beat fucking friend. 

Sammy squeezes his eyes shut, gives himself time to take two deep breaths, to bury ( _’bad, bad choice of words, don’t think ‘bury’ when actually fucking half-buried alive, you dumb fuck,_ ’ he berates himself) the terror coursing through his body, to remind himself it is just dark, just shadows not Shadows with a capital S, not anything but the result shitty light. The darkness isn’t absolute, isn’t——He’s _alone_. He’s alone in the fucking dark and Ben is in danger and Sammy has to be the one to fucking put on his big boy pants and fucking save the best man Sammy knows (fiances in The Void not counting - but even then Jack and Ben are a close tie). But it’s dark and Sammy really hates the dark, has since The Vo—

Sammy snaps his eyes open. So much for calming himself. It’s not much of a comfort, eyes open or closed. Not much of a difference. 

Laying under whatever he is and panicking isn’t going to do jack shit to change their situation. 

Bracing himself, Sammy gives an experimental push up. The thing on top of him shifts. There’s a crashing sound of things hitting the floor and Sammy realizes he’s under one of the metal racks of equipment that line the room. He’s got one shelf across his shoulders, another just past his knees, on his calves.

It’s not heavy, especially since the equipment has mostly fallen off shelves (Sammy suspects the random aches he feels kinda everywhere are developing bruises from things smashing into him as he and the shelves fell). He gets his arms under himself and pushes up to his elbows and knees. His back on his lower right side shoots a pain so sharp and sudden that Sammy screams. But he can feel the rack shifting easily. 

He keeps going, angling himself away from where he thinks Ben is, afraid he’ll dump the damn thing on Ben. The rack slides to the side, as he pushes up into a full kneeling position. He twists, and fuck does that hurt, pushes the mostly empty rack off the back of his legs. 

Sammy pants, kneeling there. He chokes on the dust again. Yeah, his back is fucked up, because coughing makes the pain worse. A wave of dizziness hits him from the pain spike, and he pitches forward, barely managing to catch himself on his hands again. Ben needs him, and he’s wasting time.

Kneeling back up, he pulls the collar of the t-shirt he’s wearing under his flannel up over his mouth and nose. It filters some of the dust, makes breathing without choking on the thick air easier. Thanks training videos.

It’s so dark. Sammy pats his pocket and realizes he left his phone on the desk. Who knows where it wound up. Carefully he lurches to his feet. Careful or not, the second he’s vertical he can feel more than see his vision going black. 

Sammy shakes his head. Thankfully it works. His body just has to get over the shock of what happened _now_ so he can find Ben. He’s not even hurt himself, damnit, but Ben might be!

“Ben?” He calls again. Sammy sounds fucking terrified to his own ears, even through the t-shirt. 

Ben groans in response. Sammy doesn’t even choke down the sob of relief that bubbles out of him, hearing a sound that would normally bring him to his knees (metaphorically, mostly) hearing Ben sound so hurt. But right now, Sammy is just so happy to find out Ben is _alive_ that he could cry.

“Ben? Answer if you can.” Sammy calls out, shuffling mostly blind towards where he thinks Ben is.

“Sa—“ that’s as far as Ben gets before he starts choking on the thick air. In between coughs he makes tiny, pained sounds that shoot right through Sammy’s heart. 

“I’m coming,” Sammy promises. 

They weren’t far apart when the crash happened, but it feels like it is taking forever to get to Ben, in the near-total darkness. Sammy has to shuffle his feet along the floor rather than pick them up. Everything that seems to have been on the desk or on the racks is now littering the floor, and Sammy can’t really see the floor well.

Ben is quiet again. “Ben?” Sammy asks, hoping he is going in the right direction.

He gets a weak ‘Hmm’ in reply like Ben can’t get himself to speak but he’s so close. Sammy pushes forward faster. Which turns out to be a dumb idea.

Sammy’s shins slam into something big and solid. He can’t keep his balance and pitches forward, over the object, shouting in surprise as he goes down. Ben cries out, then Sammy does again when he hits the floor. Sammy’s whole body goes hot in that about to pass out kind of way, and he’s afraid that he is going to, for a few long moments. But then he feels breath on his outstretched left hand and realizes he’s almost to Ben. The relieved surge of adrenaline at finding Ben pushes the annoying pain to the side. 

Desperate to hear the other man actually speak, Sammy asks: “Ben?” 

Sammy gets back onto his hands and knees, frowning with worry, shit, shaking with it, when Ben doesn’t answer. He crawls forward carefully, not wanting to cause Ben any more pain by accident again. 

He’s pretty sure he does cry when his fingers brush warm skin - but his relief is short-lived because his fingers hit something wet and sticky - blood. Sammy can’t see shit, and Ben’s head is bleeding. Sammy’s heart launches into his throat, beating out a new complicated rhythm Sammy’s pretty sure the human heart isn’t meant to make. 

But he can’t stay here, frozen in panic. Ben is hurt. Gently, Sammy moves his hand up, realizing that he’s touching Ben’s forehead, that Ben’s on his side, facing Sammy. When he gets to Ben’s temple, the blood is the thickest, and there’s something resting on Ben’s head. One of the ceiling tiles. Jack-in-the-Box-Jesus. 

It’s not heavy, and Sammy easily lifts it off and flings it further into the room, away from the door. He knows his hand is probably filthy, but he has to check: he probes very gently at the area the ceiling tile was resting on and finds a good-sized knot swelling up there. 

“Ben,” he calls again, tapping the other man’s cheek. He doesn’t know how to wake him up, doesn’t know how bad his head is hurt, how bad the rest of him is hurt. Sammy doesn’t know shit because Sammy can’t see shit!

Oh, he’s gasping in harsh breaths, working himself into a panic attack - _fuck_ he’s probably never stopped having one since the ground started shaking - but Ben is hurt and Sammy is alone in the dark and he doesn’t know what to fucking do.

“S’mmy?” Ben asks, weakly, and it’s the best fucking sound Sammy could hear. He might be crying with relief. Okay, he’s totally crying - a bit. 

“Yeah. Stay still,” he says, bracing his hand against Ben’s shoulder because of course, Ben tries to shift, to sit up. To his relief, Ben stops moving. Sammy can just sort of make out the other man’s eyes in the dark. “There was an earthquake. You hit your head.”

“M’ legs are stuck,” Ben slurs (and oh isn’t that slur a terrifying indication of how bad his head injury is?), straining under Sammy’s hand from a minute before he stills.

“It’s okay. I’ll get you out...Just. Stay with me, man, _please_ ,” Sammy begs. 

Ben starts to cough again, though Sammy thinks the dust is mostly settling now - how long can it all be in the air, damnit? - Sammy just pats Ben’s arm as he coughs, not sure what else to do. When he’s done, Sammy asks: “Is your cellphone in your pocket?”

“Dunno…’ink so.” _Fuck_ he really does sound awful. Sammy’s heart tries out yet another new, complicated fast rhythm. 

“I lost mine,” Sammy says, just to keep Ben with him and talking, engaged in what is going on around him, as Sammy slides his hand along the other man’s side until he reaches his hip pocket. No phone. Sammy almost panics again, but he remembers that Ben always keeps his phone in his hoodie pocket, and sure enough, it’s there when Sammy reaches in.

He pulls the phone out and thumbs it open. Ben doesn’t bother with a passcode which Sammy has told him a thousand times is a bad idea - ‘any idiot can get into your phone Ben’ has turned into ‘thank fuck this idiot can get into your phone’ in an instant.

“Turning on the flashlight,” he warns, figuring Ben’s head might not appreciate the bright light, before doing just that.

Sammy very nearly cries out at the sight of his best friend covered in blood and dust. He reminds himself that head wounds bleed a lot, that Ben is awake - even if his eyes are clenched shut right now, he’s awake and talking to Sammy. Sammy moves the light along Ben’s body, looking quickly for injuries, and can’t help the quiet “Fuck!” that leaves his mouth when he sees Ben’s legs.

They’re trapped under the desk, almost on top of each other. The problem is that big solid thing Sammy tripped over. It’s a fucking support beam from the ceiling. It’s mostly on the desk, which is collapsed down on top of Ben’s legs. 

“Fuck!” Sammy says again, wondering how heavy the beam is, if he’ll even be able to safely move it off Ben. 

“Oh…’s why m’ legs hurt,” Ben says, sounding dazed, like he’s in shock. 

“I’m gonna - we need help,” Sammy says, opening Ben’s contacts to call Troy. His heart lurches when he checks the corner of the screen for a signal. “Ben! You never charge your fucking phone!” Sammy snaps, not meaning to sound so upset, but he’s got three fucking percent of his battery left. At least there’s a signal. 

Calling for help is more important than a light, Sammy thinks, so he taps Troy’s name. For a long moment, nothing happens, then Troy’s phone rings. And rings. And rings a third time, Sammy’s breath is frozen in his chest -he’s not going to get a chance to call anyone else he’s not sure what he’ll be able to do after this if they can just sit until someone thinks to come looking for them but what if the desk is seriously harming Ben like cutting off blood to his foot or something or wha— Troy picks up on the fourth ring.

“Sammy? We hear you on the ra—"

“—Troy!” Sammy cuts off, unsure how much time he has. “It’s Sammy. Ben’s _hurt_! He’s trapped and the lights are out and I don’t know what—“ The phone dies in Sammy’s hand, the light shuts off, plunging them both back into darkness.

Sammy gasps for breath, it sounds wheezy and panicked, even to his own ringing ears. Then he feels Ben's hand clumsily pat him on the thigh, probably the only place where Ben can reach him right now. 

“Troy’ll come,” Ben says, and Sammy wonders who’s supposed to be comforting who here. The one not trapped under the fucking desk, he thinks. 

Sammy sighs. “Yeah,” he says, scrubbing both hands over his face, only after he’s started the motion does he remember that he’s got Ben’s blood on his hands. Sammy shudders. “Yeah,” he repeats again. He closes his eyes that are straining to see in the darkness and nods. “Okay. Yeah,” he knows he’s repeating himself, but he doesn’t know what to say, what to _do_.

“’s 'kay,” Ben says, sounding oddly calm for a man stuck under rubble with only a panicking moron for company. Sammy figures the head injury is probably making him not understand the gravity of the situation.

Sammy gives a shallow laugh, ignoring how it pulls on his aching back. “Right. Perfectly okay,” he snips, then bites his lip to hold back any other idiotic comments. “I—I need to find a flashlight. They’re on the walls, right? By the door?” He knows they are, but he wants to keep Ben in the conversation with him.

“Mmm,” Ben agrees, sounding like he’s drifting.

Sammy curses and taps Ben’s cheek. Or, he thought it was Ben’s cheek, but it’s his neck. Fuck! Sammy really hates the dark. “Stay awake, buddy!” 

“Okay,” Ben agrees, easily enough. “How come? Wanna sleep?” Well, so much for easy going.

“‘Cause you have a head injury, Ben. I’m worried.” 

“Oh. Don’t worry. ’m gonna jus' close—“

“No!” Sammy doesn’t mean to shout it as loud as he does, but the stress is winning out and his heart is pounding so damn hard and he’s so, so damn scared that Ben will never open his eyes again if he closes them. Ben flinches under his hand. “Shit, sorry, man. Just. Please. Keep your eyes open. You have to stay awake. You hit your head, remember?”

“No?” Ben says, sounding uncertain, but more awake. 

“Oh. Well. You did. So. Stay awake,” Sammy says lamely. He doesn’t know how to be both comforting - it has to be terrifying being Ben right now - and assertive enough to impress on Ben how important it is that he stays awake. Sammy’s had a concussion before. Sleep is the only appealing thing, he’s sure. He adds in a desperate: “Please,” and hopes that gets through.

“‘kay. Stayin’ ‘wake,” Ben slurs at him.

Fuck. It’ll have to be good enough. 

“I’m gonna go for a flashlight.”

“You said that already,” Ben tells him.

Sammy sighs. “Yeah. I’m just...I don’t want to go away from you.” His cheeks are wet again or maybe have been this whole time. Sammy’s not sure.

“’m ‘kay,” Ben promises him. Sammy would feel better if Ben said all the syllables in those words. 

“Okay,” Sammy agrees, starting to turn around - the moments of having the light helped Sammy get his bearings in the room, he thinks he needs to go this way. Sammy thinks about standing up but realizes staying on the floor may be the better option, he’s not sure he can handle the pain of another fall. “Keep talkin’ at me, Ben,” he calls over his shoulder as he starts to shuffle forward on his hands and knees. 

“'bou’ wha'?” Ben asks. 

“I don’t care, anything,” he answers, paying attention to where he’s putting his hands more than what Ben’s saying. He shuffles forward a few inches, slow going because the floor is absolutely littered with debris. His back is pure fire but Sammy doesn’t stop. Getting the desk off Ben and the other man to safty is is top priority - he can worry about his small injury after that. It takes him a few moments to realize Ben isn’t talking. Sammy kneels up and looks over his shoulder. “Ben!” He calls, a little more harsh than he means to sound, but he’s afraid.

“Hmm?” Ben sounds like Sammy just woke him. Fuck.

Sammy kneels there for a minute, trying to think, then: “Sing.”

“What?”

“Sing, man. You like to, and I’ll hear you and know you’re awake.” Sammy’s kind of proud that his uber stressed-the-fuck-out mind could come up with such a good solution. It’ll also give him an idea how Ben’s brain is doing, if he can still string together lyrics.

“Bu’...we’re in the studio,” Ben argues. Which is good. One, he’s aware of where he is, that has to be a good thing, right? And two, he remembers the rule Sammy instituted after one two many renditions of Backstreet Boys songs: if Ben sang any boyband crap, then he had to buy pancake puppies in the morning.

“Special head injury dispensation,” Sammy says, turning back around and putting his hand straight down into a piece of glass. Or plastic? Whatever the fuck it is it’s sharp and it _hurts_. Sammy swears but keeps going. Ben’s hurt. He’s trapped. Sammy can take a bit of pain.

“Oh, cool,” Ben says, sounding like Sammy’s giving him a real treat and not a chance to sing boyband lyrics while sporting a concussion.

Ben launches into ‘Everybody’ as Sammy moves forward. He doesn’t sound great, singing, not as good as he normally does. Ben can sing, though Sammy just wishes he wouldn’t when around ghost hunting assholes or other people who are just going to tease him for it, thus the singing in the studio rule. Right now, Ben just doesn’t have his normal enthusiasm behind him, and the words are running together. 

It works though. Sammy shuffles forward carefully, listening to Ben drift from one song to the next without seeming to realize he is. It would be more concerning but Ben is always kind of like that - Sammy suspects that’s just how the inside of Ben’s head _is_.

Finally, finally, Sammy’s fingers brush the wall in front of him. He feels along it, finds the door, and gets to his feet - _shit shit shit_ standing up hurts - a moment later he’s clicking on the flashlight that’s always plugged into the wall and charging. It works, lighting up the floor around Sammy. Some of the terror Sammy feels dies down at the light. He can see.

Making it back over to Ben is easier with light. Ben’s shaky singing comes to a stop, as Sammy returns. He looks up at Sammy with big eyes. “How ya gonna…?” he starts to ask, trailing off. He looks scared, and his voice is tight with pain. 

Sammy looks at the beam, the desk, and...he’s not sure. He can’t lift it, he doesn’t think, so what does that leave? Pushing it. Or finding something to use as a lever to lift everything up off Ben’s legs. Pushing it might cause Ben more pain. Either Sammy could push the damn thing onto his feet by accident, or the act of sliding it across the surface of the desk could put pressure on Ben’s trapped legs in the wrong places...The lever idea may not work, could drop the desk and beam back onto Ben...Fuck. 

No option is really good.

“Do you think you can move your legs, if I lift the desk?” Sammy asks Ben.

He points the light at Ben’s chest, so he can still see the other man’s face but he's not directly shining in Ben’s eyes. Ben looks worried, then determined. He nods. “Yeah,” he agrees easily enough.

Sammy wants to ask if Ben’s sure. But...he can’t figure out another way to do this. “Okay,” he says, as if his agreement was needed. “Just need to find something to use…” he says, turning and trailing off as he starts searching for his lever, and something to use as a fulcrum. 

Suck it Mr. McNeal who said Sammy didn’t deserve to pass his twelfth-grade physics class. 

The shelf that fell on him. The shelves are removable, solid metal planks about three feet long. It’s strong enough to hold heavy equipment, hopefully that makes it strong enough to hold the weight of the desk and the beam. Nearby is a toolbox. The height is almost perfect. Next to that is, of all things, their label maker in its hardshell case. Sammy manages to juggle all three items, trapping the flashlight between his shoulder and jaw, and sets them down on the other side of the desk, near Ben’s feet. Shit. There’s blood soaking into Ben’s jeans. 

He comes back over to crouch down next to Ben. 

Ben’s awake still, though he’s gone quiet while Sammy gathered the supplies, and watching him. “I think I have something to brace the desk on, if you can’t pull yourself out. But—”

“-Try?” Ben interrupts, seeming to get what Sammy’s trying to say.

Sammy nods. “Yeah. I’m not sure how stable it’ll be. The quicker we get you out, the better, yeah?”

Ben nods. Head injury or not, he looks so much like the Ben Arnold that shot down a goddamn UFO that Sammy feels some of his fear for his best friend lift a little. He reaches out, brushes some of Ben’s curls behind his ear, knowing that it’ll just fall out in a moment or so. 

“This might hurt,” Sammy warns, pretending his hands aren’t shaking.

Ben gives a tight little laugh. “Already does, dude. How much worse—“

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Sammy warns but he’s grinning, hopefully, Ben knows he’s mostly kidding, he doesn't think this will go wrong - he hopes. Except...he’s not, not really. He’s positive lifting the desk will cause Ben more pain, in the very least.

“Do it,” Ben says, determined. 

Right. Sammy stands up and goes back to the other side of the desk. As he sets things up, to keep Ben talking and distracted, Sammy asks: “What’s your favorite curse word?”

Ben laughs - it sounds shaky. “Uh..tie between fuck and goddamnit.” 

Sammy sets the flashlight down on the floor, angled on some random rubble so that it’s lighting up Ben’s legs, the gap between the desk and the floor. “Good choices,” he comments, deciding on using the label maker’s case as the fulcrum - the toolbox would hold the weight of the desk and beam better, being made of metal, Sammy thinks.

“You, uh, may want to use both,” he adds in, sliding the shelf under the desk and resting it on the label maker’s case. He lines up the toolbox to slide under when he needs to - if Ben can’t slide himself out. “Try not to hit your feet into the desk as you pull yourself out, okay?” Fuck. Sammy’s voice is shaking. All of Sammy is shaking. He wishes he could be braver, that Ben could have someone with him right now that isn’t a mess of doubt and fear. “I’m not sure how stable this will be.”

“Gotcha,” Ben says, and his voice is just as uncertain as Sammy’s. Fuck! Sammy really is horrible at this.

“I’m gonna lift slowly...On three?” Ben hums his agreement. “One, two,” Sammy takes a deep breath, “three!”

He pushes down on the end of the shelf. Fuck it’s heavy. The label maker box cracks alarmingly, and Sammy thinks ‘ _I fucked up_ ’ but Ben’s screaming wordlessly, then ‘fuck!’ and Sammy can’t think about anything other than getting Ben out and to a hospital where he can get help. Sammy’s back shoots pain down his right leg, up his back, _everywhere_ , but he ignores it and keeps pushing down. He manages, despite the shooting pain, to use his right foot to push the toolbox under the desk.

“‘Clear!” Ben shouts, voice wrecked - he really did scream quite loudly.

Sammy eases off the lever, afraid to just drop it and cause the beam to bounce and hit one of them (wouldn’t that be fucking perfect?). The toolbox holds. “Piece of cake,” Sammy mutters, voice weak from exertion, fear. The relief of getting Ben out leaving him dizzy.

They’re not out of the woods yet. He bends down to pick up the flashlight. And finds himself on his belly. Sammy blinks, groaning, as he tries to figure out what just happened. He thinks he might have just passed out. 

“Sammy!” Ben is shouting, the fear in his voice telling Sammy he’s said it more than once. 

“‘m ‘kay,” Sammy says, echoing Ben’s earlier words, slur and all, sounding just as out of it. 

“Are you hurt?” Ben asks.

Sammy shakes his head. Things swim for a moment. Bad idea, that. He looks around, realizes how close he just came to knocking over the desk, possibly hurting Ben again. _Shit._ And Ben sounds so worried about him when the other man was just trapped under rubble. 

“Nah...just…adrenaline crash,” he explains, getting to his knees, wishing he didn’t sound so out of breath. He can’t really feel his face. 

Ben grunts and Sammy looks over to see that the idiot is trying to get to his feet. “Don’t!” Sammy shouts, louder than he means to, but again, he can’t feel his fucking face, and he stands up. 

Sammy staggers, but keeps on his feet. It shouldn’t feel like it takes all of Sammy’s energy to get to Ben, to take the dozen or so steps needed to get around the desk and beam, but he is exhausted by the time he gets there, easing himself down onto his knees next to the other man. 

That’s when the ground starts to shake again. Ben shouts in terror, Sammy joins him. More debris rains down from the ceiling. Sammy leans over Ben, covering his head with his body and balancing on one hand so he can put his other arm over his own head. Luckily, nothing heavy hits them. 

When the shaking stops, Sammy leans back up (fuck fuck fuck fuck his back is stabbing pains now). “Aftershock,” he tells Ben.

“We need t’ get outta ‘ere,” Ben says, sitting up again, bracing himself on his hands.

Right. The ceiling above them is unstable, who knows what else is too. Sammy nods. “Can you walk?” 

As he asks it, he shines the light down at Ben’s legs, and gasps. “Oh,” Ben says, voice small, and then he’s falling back from his sitting position, landing on his back because Sammy was too slow to realize that the other man was passing out to catch him. _Damnit_!

Seeing your bone sticking out of your leg will do that to a man. 

Knowing that’s why Ben passed out doesn't make Sammy panic any less. He curses, and leans over, tapping Ben’s cheek. “Ben. Ben, _please_ , wake up,” he urges, voice full of fear. Ben can’t go into shock now.

It takes a moment or two, but Ben’s eyes flutter open, and Sammy lets out a dry sob of relief. “Fuck, man, don’t do that to me,” Sammy blurts out.

“Sorry,” Ben mumbles, but he seems more confused than anything.

“Okay. We still need to get out of here. You can’t walk.”

“No, I can—“

Sammy holds up a hand, cutting Ben’s protest off. “Not gonna happen, little buddy.” He says the nickname in an attempt to get Ben annoyed with him. An angry Ben is an awake and not dying of shock Ben, as far as Sammy’s concerned. 

“You can’t carry me, Sammy…” Ben argues instead.

Sammy...Sammy thinks Ben might be right. But adrenaline is one hell of a thing, and so is the fear of his best friend being squashed under more rubble. Which is what might happen if they wait around for a rescue.

“You could go and—“ Ben starts.

“-Fuck no!” Sammy snaps, cutting Ben off before he can finish the suggestion. 

“Sammy—“

“—no! Would you leave me here with my shin sticking out of my fucking jeans and _hope_ I don’t get buried alive by an aftershock?”

Ben sighs. “No. 'course not.”

“Then don’t insult me by suggesting I do that to you!” 

Ben stares at him for a moment, then struggles to sit up again. Sammy lets him. He sets his jaw and asks: “ _Can_ you lift me?”

No? Maybe? Sammy doesn’t know. He just...has to. And that’s the end of it. So he says with more confidence than he really has: “Of course. I bench press twerps like you for breakfast.”

“That made no sense, Sammy,” Ben tells him, laugher threatening in the edges of his voice.

Sammy shrugs and hands Ben the flashlight. “You have to hold this,” he explains. Ben takes it with a nod. He really looks like he doesn’t want Sammy to carry him. Sammy hopes that’s because Ben is worried about him, and not because Ben doesn’t think Sammy’s up for the job. Sammy frowns. “I'm gonna wind up jostling you... It’s gonna hurt.” 

“Yup,” Ben agrees, cheer in the face of certain pain.

Well. No arguing with that. And no time to wait around for help, not with the aftershock proving they had to get out now. Sammy nods.

He moves so he’s kneeling on his right knee, left foot flat on the floor. He hopes that’ll be easier, pushing up with his good side first. He slides his arm under Ben’s knees, carefully, and smiles what he hopes is a reassuring smile when Ben loops his arm across Sammy’s shoulders. 

“Ready?”

“Sure,” Ben says, probably going for flippant but sounding kind of terrified. Sammy knows the feeling.

Sammy can’t count and lift, so he doesn’t. He just pushes up, and prays he doesn’t drop Ben as he goes. Somehow, some-fucking-how, he manages to get to his feet and doesn’t fall when he’s fully upright. He tightens his grip on the other man.

“See?” He asks, and even he can hear the strain in his voice over the pounding of his pulse in his ears. “Easy.”

“Sammy?” Ben asks as they start towards the door. Sammy has to go slow, both because he is carrying a fully (mostly) grown man, and because of all the debris on the floor. “You’re hurt.” It’s not a question. 

Sammy is biting his lip so hard he tastes blood. He can’t feel it, though. He can hardly feel anything, just the pain in his back, spreading out over every nerve. He shuffles forward for a few steps before Ben says his name again, concern in his voice. At least Ben is awake and following their conversation? That’s a positive, even if it’s a conversation Sammy really doesn’t want to have right now. 

“Sammy!” Ben says it desperatly, so desperate Sammy can't ignore him.

“Can’t...carry you...and talk,” Sammy tries. They get out of the studio and into the hallway. The door outside is only about twenty feet away. It feels like ten miles. Sammy can’t help the despairing groan the leaves him at the sight. 

Ben makes a frustrated sound. A mini Bensplosion. A threat of one. Sammy keeps walking forward. There’s less debris on the floor now, he doesn’t have to shuffle his feet anymore, but he can’t help but continue on that way. A third of the way to the door he caves a bit and answers: “Think I...busted a rib,” and _fuck_ it’s hard to breathe and talk and carry Ben. 

“Goddamnit, Sammy…” Ben trails off. Then he’s cursing because Sammy’s sweaty hands are starting to lose their grip and he has to jostle Ben a bit to get a better grip. 

“Sorry...sorry…” Sammy says. He’s not sure if it’s sweat on his face or tears. He hates knowing he’s causing Ben pain. All he’s done is cause the man pain since the earthquake. Shit, if he had been quicker, if he realized what was happening sooner, then maybe Ben wouldn’t be so hurt right now. Sammy failed his friend. 

“Stop, Sammy,” Ben says, voice trembling.

Only then does Sammy realize he’s been repeating ‘sorry’ over and over as he shuffles towards the door. He stops talking, but not pushing towards the door. He knows if he stops now he’ll never be able to start up again. His whole body feels like jello. If he was more with it, maybe Sammy would be more concerned about that, about how an assumed broken rib could be causing this much pain. 

They’re so close. They can get in Ben’s car. Sammy has the keys in his pocket —after having to call Lily to bring the spare set because Ben lost them, _twice_ , Ben is no longer in charge of his carkeys at work, Sammy gets them the second the car is turned off. He’ll figure out how to get Ben in the car, and then he’ll be able to take Ben to the hospital - or at least down the mountain because Sammy isn’t so sure he should be driving a car if he can’t feel his body…

They make it to the door. Sammy could cry from relief. Ben manages to twist the handle and they go through - Sammy thankfully not walking Ben into the doorjamb. Only about ten more feet to Ben’s car. Easy.

Sammy’s not so sure he’s gonna make it. To the car. Down the mountain. Another foot. But he tries. He thinks Ben is talking to him, he can feel the vibration of it in his arms, but can’t hear over the thump-thud of his pulse in his ears, drowning out all other sounds. His vision is tunneling. 

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t hear the sirens or see the flashing lights until Troy’s Sherif’s SUV is pulling into the parking lot, followed by Ron’s battered pickup and an ambulance. Sammy could cry with relief. He was starting to seriously doubt he would be able to get Ben down the mountain to help.

Sammy stops walking as Troy, barely in park, jumps out of his SUV and rushes to them. “Ben! Sammy!” He calls as he runs at them. 

“Take him! _Please,_ ” Sammy urges, his legs are trembling violently, almost as violently as his arms and he’s sure he’s about to drop his best friend right onto the cracked asphalt. He doesn’t know what kind of damage that could do to Ben’s leg, but he’s sure it’ll be bad - and painful.

Troy might be a string bean of a man, but he’s strong, and Ben hardly weighs anything. Troy takes Ben easily, hardly jostling the smaller man as they transfer him. He also doesn’t question why Sammy needs him to take over, just does as Sammy begs him to, because Troy’s a good man like that. 

“Sammy!” Ben is shouting, sounding worried, and Sammy doesn't understand why.

Not until he processes there’s a warm hand on his shoulder and the legs in front of his face. Oh. He’s on his knees. Suddenly, Ron’s in front of him, crouching down. Talking to him, looking worried. Sammy looks past him, to where Troy is gently setting Ben down on the gurney the two EMTs have pulled out the back of the ambulance. 

“I gotta--” Sammy says, staggering to his feet. “Ben,” he explains.

Sammy wouldn’t make it vertical, if not for Ron’s big hands holding him up, one hand across his chest, the other against his back. He thinks Ron’s growling at him to wait, but they’re going to be putting Ben in the ambulance. Sammy has to be with him - make sure Ben’s okay. He tries to take a step towards the ambulance.

Sammy tips forward despite Ron holding him up, and Ron’s hand slides lower on his back, hits something that shifts. Sudden, white-hot pain rips through him and Sammy screams and everything fades away.

Sammy comes back to himself laying on his stomach. Ron’s rumbling voice is above him, practically vibrating through Sammy’s chest. Ron sounds...angry. Sammy thinks: Ben! He can hear Ben is yelling, but he’s not sure what he’s yelling about, Sammy’s hearing isn’t right, he can’t make out what Ben’s yelling, but Ben sounds _scared_ , so he tries to get his arms under himself, get himself to his hands and knees, but a heavy hand holds him down before he gets anywhere and he has to go with it because his limbs are made of mud and he has no strength. 

“Damnit, Sammy, stay still! Ben’s okay, he’s safe in the ambulance. You’re hurt. Stay down and stay still.” Ron’s trying for calm and comforting, Sammy thinks, but the big man sounds scared. Why is Ron scared? “Troy! I need help here!” Ron shouts, and Sammy is so damn confused - he doesn't need help, doesn't need Ron panicking because he just got a little light-headed after doing more exercise than he normally does. 

Sammy’s so confused he does as he’s told. Ron wouldn’t lie to him about Ben being alright. That much Sammy’s hazy brain knows for sure. “Wha…? ’m 'kay…” he argues, still, even though he feels so far from okay. His whole body is overly hot and shaking. 

Troy’s boots and gray uniform pants fill Sammy’s vision. “Shitfire,” Troy curses. Then Troy’s running away, back towards the ambulance and the EMTs, actually _running_. 

“Why’s ‘e runnin’?” Sammy asks. He can’t hear what Troy’s saying to the EMTs, but he sounds panicked. Sammy can hear that much over the thud of his pulse in his ears. “’m jus’ layin’ down…’m ‘kay.” Wow, talking is hard. His mouth just doesn’t want to move right.

“You are not okay, Sammy,” Ron rumbles at him - he sounds shaky. “There’s a goddamn piece of metal stickin’ out your back. You need to stay still.”

“Oh,” Sammy says, laying his face down on the asphalt. “That’s why it hurts.”

He intends to say more, but he closes his eyes instead.

|~|~|~|

Nearly two weeks after the earthquake, Sammy is sprawled on the couch, half watching television, half napping, enjoying a quiet afternoon, even if he resents how exhausted he still is. With the station still under repairs, there’s not much more for him to do than sleep and watch tv anyway. The dead top half of a tree came down on the station in the quake, right over the studio. Ben had been on Merv for two years to take down the damn tree since it had been struck by lightning. Their absentee boss was lucky nobody was killed. Sammy thought he was angry when he heard what had caused all the damage and nearly killed the both of them, but Ben was damn near terrifying in his rage when he called Merv from the hospital. 

They were pretty damn lucky, overall. Ben’s leg was broken, and he had a plate and screws holding it together now, but the doctors said he’d make a full recovery. The head injury he had that had terrified Sammy in the moment, wasn’t as bad as it seemed, all considered, but he seemed to be doing fine, he remembered everything before and after the earthquake, he wasn’t having headaches anymore. Sammy was even luckier: the piece of metal that punctured his back hadn’t hit any organs, despite being embedded a good two inches into him, though it had certainly hurt, the main problem for him had been blood loss and, eventually, shock. 

There was only one conversation about Sammy's injury - between him, Ben who was in the next bed and therefore part of it, and the doctor who came to talk to Sammy about his injury once Sammy was aware enough to retain any information from said doctor. Which was kind of a shock. He kept expecting Ben to yell at him, or at least bitch him out for what happened. After all, Sammy getting Ben out from under the desk and carrying him made the tearing from the piece of metal - a part of the shelf that fell on Sammy - worse, and the doc had said as much. Ben chimed in that the whole roof had caved in a few minutes after they reached the parking lot in an aftershock that Sammy didn’t even know happened, given that he was pretty damn unconscious at the time. That settled it right there, as far as Sammy was concerned - he made the right choice and he would do it again. Really Sammy wasn’t aware he was hurt that bad, and the doctor had backed Sammy up when he preemptively asked if he could have just not felt the wound given the situation. So they didn’t mention it all again, which Sammy was grateful. He wasn’t intentionally reckless, but he could see why Ben would think so. And yet...Ben never commented on that part of everything. Sammy felt like he was waiting for Ben or someone to read him the proverbial riot act, at least for the first week. By now, he's fairly sure Ben's not angry with him. 

Sammy’s lazy afternoon is interrupted by the front door opening, and Ben clomping in, nosily, on his crutches, Emily behind him. There goes his quiet lazy afternoon. Not that Sammy really minds. They all greet each other, settling in the living room around him.

Ben crashes down next to him, making the couch bounce, and both of them wince. Ben gives him an apologetic look. Sammy rolls his eyes fondly. Sammy has learned over the last week or so that Ben is a menace on crutches.

Ben turns to Emily and holds out his hand. She puts something in it, a small wrapped box. Sammy’s curiosity peaks when Ben turns to him again, grinning as he holds out the wrapped present. To his surprise, Ben is blushing, just slightly, like he’s nervous about Sammy's reaction. Sammy takes the box.

“Just open it,” Ben tells him, before Sammy can ask even one of the many questions he wants to. 

Sammy does as told, carefully unwrapping the box. He’s not sure what he expects, but it’s not what he finds in the small box. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. It's...a necklace?

It's a rectangle pendant that's straight on three sides, and jagged in a simple zigzag on the right end of it. Engraved on the front is 'ROCK YO' and the back '2020.' Ben holds up another peice, zigzagged on the left this time, with the letters 'UR BODY' engraged on it's surface. The zigzagged edges line up like a friendship necklace. 

He holds it against Sammy's peice, and Sammy reads it: 'ROCK YOUR BODY.' The back of Ben's has the rest of the date of the earthquake. Sammy can't help but laugh. 

But here’s something about the metal it’s made out of that’s familiar-- “Is this…?” He asks amusment morphing into genuine surprise.

Ben grins and nods. “Yup! I convinced the surgeon to give it to me,” Ben explains. “And Dwayne shaped it. He really is good at metalwork - he made his and Kurt's rings...” Ben trails off, biting his lip nervously.

Sammy stares down at the necklaces. Only Ben Arnold would give Sammy a gift of friendship necklace made out of a piece of metal that was lodged in Sammy’s back to commemeorate the horric event they both survived - featuring shitty boyband lyrics. 

Sammy remembers how terrified he was that night, alone in the dark with a hurt best friend and no idea what to do, how to help him, so sure that he had fucked up and failed to protect Ben. And now, here he is, _here they are_ , sitting on the couch sore but safe. Alive. Together. Maybe he didn’t fail his friend at all, that night. 

“Do you like it?” Ben asks, quieter, nervous sounding. 

It is a weird gift. 

But they’re weird people, with even weirder lives.

Sammy blinks away the wetness at the corners of his eyes and pulls Ben into a hug. “Love it,” he assures Ben.

**Author's Note:**

> Dear HighSchool!RollercoasterMoon: Bet ya didn't know one day you'd be using a Backstreet Boys lyric as weirdly sentamental engraving necklace in a fanfic, or as the fic title for that matter, did ya?
> 
> Gosh, I _HATED_ 90s boybands back in the day... still not a fan, though listening to Ben sing lyrics is kinda hillarious....


End file.
